the kirkyard


Male. 67. West Tennessee. #100Days

14,034 words

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16th Day: It Calls For A Poem


God was buried alone, by his own hand,
in the dirt.

He started it.

Jesus spit in that dirt
and rubbed it over a blind someone's eyes.

In remembrance.

I wanted to cry.
I couldn't believe it.
I didn't see it coming
with my own eyes.

sucking in their breath.
always praying for death.
left their room in a mess.

They live to defy.
They live to have it all.
They live to give

the last goodbye.

14th Day

I don't want to count the days anymore. It feels like a countdown (which it is) to a finish, rather than a count-up to whatever I'm attempting to do here.

Oh. That's right. I'm trying to write for 100 days.

Day 14. I've always liked that number. I've always liked the number 4. No reason. It just looks good.

I'm eating wrong and too much.

A glass of chardonnay gave me a headache.

Two glasses actually.

Well, maybe three.

I can't remember.

Is that a problem?

The headaches I mean.

Tomorrow I will make my bed after a half cup of coffee.

You should too.

I'm nervous about tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be nervous about tomorrow. I wish tomorrow was over today. And I wish today would change places with yesterday. And yesterday would change places with the day before that, and the day before that, and so on. And when you reach the end of days I guess you could call it the beginning.

So tonight I will wish you a good morning from yesterday,

And if you wish you can say thank you tomorrow.

(When this is posted it will say June 11th. My editor says June 10th. Make of it what you will. The only thing that matters is today is the day that I wrote. And tomorrow will be the day I will write. And all the other days I wrote were the days I wrote one after another toward the challenge.)

13th Day

This is going to be crap. I have to come up with something to fulfill the 13th day.


My favorite poem is Annabel Lee.

My favorite milk is cow's milk.

Not soy or almond or coconut or cashew or oat.

I would rather eat them.

Wait a second... I like to eat cow too.

The first name of some of the greatest songwriters is John... Lennon, Hiatt, Mellencamp.

It's also the first name of notorious criminals..Wilkes Booth, Dillinger, Wayne Gacey.

(Those last two sentences were probably inappropriate being paired like that, don't ya think?)

I don't need a house. All I need is a roof.

I have a picture, maybe it's a print, that's hanging at the end of my hallway, that I will sell for $440 million dollars.

Okay. I did my duty. I feel fulfilled.

12th Day

Have you noticed that suicide has become the new way to be "friended" and to get a "like" and a "thumbs up"?

It's an action that demands a "celebration of life" ceremony anymore.

It's referred to as a "passing" or just a simple the "died".

They are mourned as leaving us too soon.

It is no longer an act of violence against humanity.

It is not something to be prevented.

It is simply the beginning of a person's legacy, especially if you are a celebrity. It is the their future entertainment value or artistry that they would have provide us and that we are being denied.

But we understand. It's just another grand way to take a final bow.

And we applaud you off the stage.

We will provide the encore from here on out.

Eleventh Day

I am so sick from two things this morning. Make that three. Sick and angry. Angry at my cat. Angry at me. And angry at Christianity and Mike Huckabee.

Number one, my oldest cat, poops almost every night in the middle of the floor of the room where his litter box is, instead of going in the litter box. It stinks to high heaven. Wakes me up. Luckily I have laminate floors. Most of the time I have cardboard down in the floor. Then he stops for awhile and I decide not to put cardboard down. Big mistake. But he'll poop on the cardboard too. It just drives me up the wall. I know. He's old. The vet said you never can tell why they start doing that. He may have dementia. I also know he has kidney troubles. What can I do? Leave him outside all the time? He is an inside cat. But this year I have been putting him outside a lot during the day when it's not too hot. I have two other cats that spend most all their time outside and so they are close by him. The problem with doing that is that he has no front claws. The first owners had him declawed. I hate that. I have had about thirteen years and love him to death. I love all three of 'em. They are my family. They are my boys. But Snugglepuss, for the love of God, please stop pooping in the floor!

And on to number two. Get it? Number two?...

Remember my last post? The one about the carbs and the Oreo's cereal? Well after wrote that I went into the kitchen and got that cereal and sat here on the couch and ate it by the handfuls until I was as full as I could be without throwing up. You know that feeling? I am paying for it this morning. Headache. Guilt. Obsessing about that action. Making it into a life or death action and consequence. I didn't go to bed until after one. Then I was awake at 4:30 because of you know who's business. And I hate myself for not putting the cardboard down for an easy cleanup and for getting that box of cereal at Walmart because I had a coupon for a free box. I didn't mention did I that I had already ate two bowls, not one bowl, of the cereal earlier? Well I had. Carbs upon carbs upon carbs. I am obsessing that I instantly became fat. I am obsessing that it was the worst thing in the world to do. I feel so sick. I'm a mess to go along with the cat's mess.

Lastly let me tell you how much I hate Christianity and Mike Huckabee. Read this tweet...

"Must have been an "awkward" moment for Angela Merkel to sit in ceremony as the Allies commemorated D-Day that broke the back of Nazi Germany."

This is what Christians do. This is what Christianity is in its purest form. They love them some WWJD (What Would Jesus Do?), Promise Keepers,and The Moral Majority don't they?

I hate them all. And do I need to repent? Not in the least. Their esteemed role model of the highest personification of that man who lived in Palestine 2000 years ago and brought his death upon his own head by claiming to be his people's God, claiming to be God himself on earth, that man, earthly Lord and Savior Trump, has said he sees no reason to be forgiven, he hasn't done anything wrong. The perfect man.

Huckabee has the same mindset. Most Christians do. They just want us to toe their line. Do as we say, not as we do. It is the most vile form of religion in the world today and has been for 2,000 years.

Did I vent much?

I am stopping here. Maybe I will articulate why I am no longer a "believer", a Christian, at a later time. Let's just say that society would be much better off without the Mike Huckabee's, Franklin Graham's, Falwell's, Dobson's, and Pat Robertson's of the world. I could say I hope they burn in hell but it carries no weight because I don't believe in the hell they believe their loving awesome god is going to send everybody to who doesn't believe like they do.

I am so glad that I don't have to love my enemy, (like the Huckabees and their ilk don't do), and bless them that curse me, (with their pronouncements of how holy they are while judging others).

I want to puke I'm so upset.

But I guess this will have to do for purging.

Cardboard down.

Throw the cereal away.

But still call out those asshole lovers of a person who broke God's laws, those assholes who love crosses used for crucifixion, those assholes who believe in fairy tales as long as it keeps other people under their thumb.


Ten Days

I ate some cereal. Carbs are bad. I ate some cereal.

Jealous yet?

It was delicious. Near ecstasy. Calming.

Sounds drug-induced doesn't it?

It's food folks. I needed food. I wanted soul-satisfying eats.

Better yet, it was free. A free box of carbs! Better yet, it was a free box of Post Oreo O's.

Oh my God. I had forgotten what heaven tasted like. Milk and Oreo's cereal.

I can die happy.

Or live in ketosis hell.

Think I'll sleep on that.

Carbs will do that to you, you know.

Nine Of A Hundred

I'm looking at a poem from the side.

I cannot read it straight on.

It might hurt me.

It might even rhyme.

That would be worse, because then it would truly be a poem.

Poetry should rhyme in order to be good.

There is no good reason not to.

Only life has no rhyme or reason.

That is what poetry is for.

To give your life a reason

to be faced straight on.

Eight Of A Hundred

I'm sick of hearing about:
minimalistic approach

Trump meets Queen Elizabeth. Trump is thinking..."God, her hair and her skin are so white. She is a great, great woman. I am whiter than white. I am a great, great king."

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. It is 6:55 a.m.. I still haven't made coffee. Just one more proof-test of mental illness.

Our local television station employs a stammering weatherman. As irritating as he is, thank God he's not a surgeon.

It ain't much but it's all I got today.

Back to you Chet.

Seven Of A Hundred

I walked today. I walked 6.5 miles.

I visited today. I visited a friend.

Now I'll open the floor to questions.

Six Of A Hundred Days

I can't write. What is there to say? Maybe it is time to maintain a silent life. To tamp down anger and judgment. To shut the speech of knowing it all. To feel what I've created within me and mourn. To know and understand that there are no finer points to life. Life just is. And I am.

My coffee tastes especially good this morning. Some mornings are like that. Some mornings aren't. This morning and its coffee shouldn't be sipped and savored. It should be gulped and forgotten.

But I sit. Butt sitting. One spot. The day is starting to take its place. But the curtain never rises. Butted in place. I cannot act.

Freeform is not free. It keeps its place. Understand?

There is nothing more satisfying than winning the very first game of solitaire of the day. I am a Klondike Grandmaster. I have lived up to my title. I am a Norse god. For this moment it's better than my coffee. The coffee has gone cold. Oh solitaire. You will not grow cold on me too will you. I need to win. Winning never grows cold. Or does it? I may never know. I click new game anyways. And...

"No more moves! You have run out of moves. Good game!" A good game is running out of moves? Uncompleted? Unfulfilled? Unmoved? Then I have won! I am a Grandmaster!

But then why don't I feel good? Why does it feel like it's just a game to lose? We all lose in the end. Even if you think you've achieved small victories, you're fooling yourself. Or you've been setup. You've been had.


"No more moves! You have run out of moves. Good game!"

Losers have played a good game. The object is not to win. The object is is to keep running out of moves. Losers and winners are the same. They have run out of moves. But why are the winners never congratulated for running out of moves?

It's because they have lost too. Winning and losing is a solitary game.


Five Of A Hundred Days

A Benadryl bound morning. Grog should be my middle name. A cocktail of weighted eyes and a muddled mind. I should receive a reward for even lifting my head from the pillow.

Whatever happened to bright and chipper?

10:30 p.m. my time. Of course my time may be your time too. But all in all it's everyone's time.

What if we stopped counting time? The hours, the minutes, the seconds. What if we only kept track of the mornings that we got up, and marked that off as a day? Better yet, what if we didn't keep track at all? What if we measured our life by when we got out of bed and said to ourselves its good enough?

I got out of bed. This is now officially the 6th day out of a hundred. I missed putting this up last night. And being obsessed and possessed, it wasn't good enough. I'm not good enough. And so it begins.

Four Of A Hundred Days

I got cute with the title of this post. Obsession takes many forms. The "Out" is not over while I am in it. Anyways. I needed more freeform. A form of freeing. Although it's just holding me to account with my obsessions.

Still there is no sense. I have no sense. Nothing makes sense. If only nothing could.

But maybe that's the point. To be at nothing. To be within it. To know it as intimately as the soul that suffers with itself. The suffering that is myself.

And maybe the soul is the nothing.

It could be the nothing ventured. It could be the nothing that should be gained.

I pause.

End the pause.

I am positive that bread is not the staff of life. It plugs the gut, not to mention also the butt. I am full. But it's not a satiated full. It's the full of more than bad enough. The full of existing in the rut of a bad-for-you food cycle.

I also ate potato salad.

How sick.

I am not OCD. I do know what works for me. It's fats, and proteins, and vegetables.

There. I'll feel better in a couple of days.

Three Out Of A Hundred Days

Yes. It's three out of a hundred days. Or a better way of looking at it is that its 3 out of 3 days. I don't have a hundred days. Shoot. I don't have 3 days. I have had most of today. And that should be good enough.

Do you notice that I'm talking a little more coherently? The other posts were motivating me to freethink. To type without thinking it through to a conclusion. Freeform.

I am lightheaded. Feeling puny for a couple of days. Don't like this feeling because I think that the bubble may burst and I will be on meds. Do not want to begin to be in that regimen. Not at all.

But depression keeps me in the fold. It shepherds me back into fields of the melancholy.

Okay. Incoherency is back.

I pause and collect thoughts for tomorrow.

Two Out Of A Hundred Days

A foggy stupor does not make for a good Tuesday morning. God is in the deatils. This is a note to self. Supplements may be a good thing. The things that work. Even though science says no. My body/mind has no flow. Regimens are good things.

This is still a freeflow. Listed tells me so. What am I to know?

There is work to do today. But I'm hoping against hope that she will call and say her energy was in freefall. You know. Paducah and all. Lazy hardly ever calls.

Keto took a fall. Ah! That may be at least half of the foggy stupor and all! Damn carbs. Begone! When I slip, the nothing becomes the all.

There's not enough coffee in my glass. Iced. It's the temp. The time of year where morning caff styles me.

One Out Of A Hundred Days

It's all or nothing. Sitting with my best companions in the world. Or ever. My 3 cats. I am a hermit of my mind. My mind is damaged. Goods or good or not. I breathe. Existence. It's not a fresh breath. Stale old air. My cats love me. They are comfortable. They comfort me.

It's Tuesday. It could be the day before. Or the day after. There are no commas. Just periods and spaces. 67 years is not long for a death march. In the grand scheme of things there is no scheme.

Emptying your mind into a daiquiri is a hell of a way to make friends. Better than meds? Of course. Alcohol is given by the gods. Stupor is not stupid. It opens who we are. Really. Do I believe it? No. But I relieve it of its responsibility. A stream of consciousness only flows from a rum spring as it pools in your blood.

Here comes my old man. Cat #1. He loves me too.

I need to walk. I live to walk. To outpace the demons. But there's nowhere to walk to anymore. Running out of places. A house has to be lived in. A holding cell. Sentenced.

There's a need to break free. When you lose your need to, you lose. Guessing that's the outcome. The old man purrs in my lap. He knows more than I do. He doesn't need dates or the time of day because he will sleep when he wants to. He exists because he is a cat. I exist to suffer. Others would try to convince me otherwise because they have a religion and its promoters that want everyone to believe that their god loves them, even though their books are a record of otherwise. God regrets them and us. Continually. Eternally.

I can't give it all. It's not evening. It's not the first day. It's not good. Goodness and mercy don't follow me. Later will remain today. Somebody died. I do not want to visit. Who wants to visit the dead? Dust to dust? A chemical time-bomb. An unwanted act of self-preservation. He looks so natural. Doesn't make any difference to dirt. You're protected from that breath of fresh air. But there's been nothing fresh about it since day one.

To be quieted is to strive for. Don't cry out. Nobody is listening anyways. They are judging. Vengeance is theirs. They are so much better they reek of success. Go ahead and judge, because you are judged. See? I'm using commas. The challenge is on. This might go on all day. But who's counting.

Take a breath.

I have no name. I have not been called. I perform at its bidding. To write before thinking it through to perfection is as hard as I thought. This may be the quietest morning I have experienced in ages. I am using I more aren't I? It all gets back to you doesn't it? God I hate questions.

Don't get too cute. Ugly is the personification of beauty. I'm correcting errors. Don't correct. Don't correct me. The id screams. It is not I, but the devil is in the details. Too cute. See how easy that was? I hate questions because all in all there are no answers. There's only the agreeable terms of engagement. I do not engage with the world. It tolerates me. Corrected at least three times in two sentences. Stop it. Please stop it.

Only if.

That may be why I took up this writing challenge. This may be the only sentence that makes sense.

If only if.

This is not a challenge. This is not even a day. This is.

Acceptance takes courage not to do anymore damage.

I pause.